When The Curtain Drops, Will You Still Be Here?
by She-Has-Holmes-Eyes
Summary: Dancing ballet ISN'T gay, alright? John does it for his leg. Sherlock does it for Mummy. Neither gets any enjoyment out of it, much less the other's company- it's not as though they're friends or anything. Neither's too sure what the other is to each other, but when your world is this dark, who can blame you for dancing in the light?


**So I've a half finished story that I've managed to lose all interest in, overwhelming responsibilities in my personal life and exams right around the corner. Clearly, the only sensible option is to start a new story xD **

**I really couldn't help it- this has been going round my mind for so long, I had to get it out on paper. I'm writing it as I think of it, so prompts and ideas would be awesome. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock, stop rubbing it in. I don't have a BREEZE about ballet, so please point out any stupid mistakes I might make! **

Waiting

John Watson was not gay.

He _wasn't_. Ballet wasn't a girly thing to do. It's not like he wore the tutus or anything, and he only wore the tights because his girlfriend said they made his arse look good. He couldn't quite remember _which _girlfriend, but why did that matter?

His physiotherapist had reccomended it, if you must know, and his psychotherapist had backed her up. Medical type people tended to do that. Apparently his wounded leg would appreciate the excercise, he certainly wasn't ready for the rough and tumble of the rugby field, and it wasn't like his crappy town had anything better to offer.

The Eden Estate of London City, home of the downtrodden, and now officially the most disasdvantaged place in the sceptered isles. It wasn't as though there were a wealth of extracurricular activities to choose from.

So. Ballet.

Truth be told, John quite liked ballet. He loved the energy, the speed, the passion behind it. He'd seen _Black Swan_. He knew fit girls who did it. What's not to like? It wasn't like he'd anything to lose.

He'd started dancing nine months ago, and it had been ten since his "accident". At this stage, it was safe to say that he was in it for the long haul, for all he might protest to his sister that he hated it and was only doing it for his leg. Because John, John was damn good.

Not pass-my-exams good. Not getting-the-lead-in-the-community-center-show good. But..._good._ The kind of good that made his teachers widen their eyes and forget to teach the rest of the class. The kind of good that stuns his much older, much more experienced classmates into a vaguely jealous stupour. The kind of good that blots out all else around you, that makes you focus on the burning in your legs and the sweat on your brow, that makes your blood sing songs of joy and triumph, that makes you whoop and laugh and thank God for this talent, this exhilarating thrill, the pounding in your heart and the smile on your face, for this wonder, this love, this _good._

Okay. Truth be told, John fucking _loved _ballet.

Not that he'd admit it though, not if you held him at gunpoint.

Gunpoints, however, were far less prominent in his thoughts than they had once been, as he shrugs the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder and slams his peeling door. Another dull day, an endlessly gray, rolling sky tumbling over burnt orange houses, misty rain clinging to John's face and making it ache with the cold. He stamps his feet to warm them and starts to shuffle his way towards the studio.

That's how you walk when you live somewhere like this. You shuffle. Careful, deliberate steps. Pound the pavement with stomping feet, kicking away cans and stones and broken glass. Head down, don't look up, don't meet anyone's eye, don't want to start something, don't want to stand out, just stomp, stomp, shuffle shuffle.

He can hear caterwauling behind him, and doesn't dare turn around. Stomp, stomp, shuffle shuffle.

It's getting closer, the whooping- hyper boys slagging and shoving each other, brandishing cans of beer even though it can't be much past ten am. Stomp, stomp, shuffle, shuffle.

"Oy! Out of the way geezer!" It's Jeff from round the corner, Jeff Hope. John knows him- not too bad a guy, but definitley not someone you want to run into on your way to a ballet studio. Stomp, stomp, shuffle shuffle.

"Here, get your arse out of the way, you're blocking the path!" yells one of his mates. John realises they're talking to him, and tries to scoot over to the side without any of them recognising his face.

"Jaysus, about fuckin' time like!" the boys snigger as they stroll by, none of them paying too much attention. John risks a glance upwards, and groans when he meets familiar blue eyes.

"Ahhhh lads, it's _Johnny!_ How's tricks man?" Jeff crows.

John forces a smile and prays. "Ah grand, you know yourself...you?"

"We're off into town for the day, Jack knows a fella who's selling cheap snow. Gonna get wasted and hit the clubs. You comin' with us? We've hardly seen you since-"

John wants to hear about "since" even less than he wants to drag himself into town and pub crawl with all his old friends. They're mates with a different boy, a boy who isn't here anymore, and he has nothing to say to any of the twats.

"Nah, have to head off to me Granny's for the day, I'm helping her clean out her attic". Seriously, brain. Of all the excuses you could have come up with, that's the one you choose. This is why we're failing almost everything.

"Ah fuck that, come have a laugh! Screw your Granny, she's mean as anything anyway", yells out a tiny little kid hanging on the edge of the group. John hasn't seen him before and guesses he's someone's little brother trying to fit in with the big boys.

Jeff glares at the midget. "Fuck off Tommo, no-one cares what you think. Just shut up and be glad we haven't told you to piss off yet. Little sad case."

John thanks his lucky stars that Jeff lost his grandfather recently, and hates himself for it.

It's absolutley boiling. It's scalding and smelly and noisy.

John loves it.

He throws his bag into one of the lockers and shucks his loose knock-off Adidas trackies. He still can't look at himself in the mirror wearing the shamefully snug tights without flushing. Studiously avoiding his reflection, he shoves his feet into a pair of black slippers and ambles through to the studio.

Nodding hello to a few familiar faces, he catches his own eye in the wall to wall mirrors and makes a face. Mirror-John grimaces back sympathetically.

Old John was considered a fairly good looking guy. Baby faced and dimpled with a sweetly shy smile, he was the kind of lad that had girls hauling him home to meet the parents. He wasn't bothered with the fancy swirls and stars shaved into his head, or the moehawks or spikes his mates all liked- he was hardly bothered with conditioner. His mum always slurred that she never knew what girls saw in a boy like him- lazy as sin, not even bothered to make himself look presentable, _just like his lazy bollocks of a father, now get out of my sight before you make me feel any worse you sloppy little fuck. _Basically, his hair tended to tumble down over his eyes until he was bothered to chop it off himself, or until some girl complained that she couldn't see his pretty blue eyes and did it for him.

He missed being Old John

New John was haggard and tired looking. He didn't bother even cutting his hair anymore, and the fringe of it dripped down to well past his nose. His skin was dull and his eyes were exhausted. The only time they ever really lit up was when he danced- a tiny spark ignited and lit up his eyes, a shadow of Old John flickering across his face, someone happy and carefree and strong.

_Focus._

John takes a breath, and reaches for the pole, feels the smooth coolness of it hug his palm. Gradually flexing the muscles of his bad leg, he brings it up parallel to the bar, and tries not to hiss with pain. He's been dossing the past while, hasn't been to the studio in nearly a week, and now he's paying for it.

He finishes his stretches and pads softly into an unoccupied part of the floor, where he plugs in his earphones. His teachers hate it, the angry, loud music he listens to- ballet is about _floating _you see, about dancing _lightly, _like a little _bumblebee._ You can't do any of that while screamo bands blast your eardrums. That's why all the classical music, the vibrating brass, chiming metals and whooping woodwinds- they help with the weightlessness, the delicacy, the grace. All that bollocks.

John didn't want to float. He wasn't light. He wasn't a bumblebee. And he would dance his way. All of that drifting away like a snowflake on the breeze was to be saved for English lessons- or at least he assumed it was, it had been a while since he'd attended one. He danced for the power and strength it made him feel. He wanted to feel secure, and grounded to something, or at the very least feel his blood boil as it became awashed with endorphins. If he wanted to float away, he'd be out with Jeff and all that lot- John danced for the here and now, to give himself something to hold on to. So he stretches out a leg, takes a deep breath. Waits.

And- _go._

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They stick out, sleek black cars, in most environments, since there are are a distinct _lack _of environments in which cars this sleek and black are meant to be. Balls, weddings, UN summits, maybe. Grocery shopping, the school run and the doctor's surgery? Decidedly not.

Here, though, it wasn't just conspicuous- it may as well have had a bullseye painted on it.

Gabrielle sighs. She's quite good at sighing. It's the nearest thing she's allowed to the expression of discontent, and she's damn well going to use it. They haven't squashed all the fight out of her yet.

She smiles at the huddled heap of cloth stretched out accross from her, lolling across a full row of plush leather seats. He must be exhausted from staying in his room and refusing to sleep for a full week, the little brat. She'd love to reach across and twiddle one of those pretty curls beneath her fingers, but it simply wasn't worth the whining and death threats that would follow. As it was, she merely observed, tried to see what she could see.

And oh, how much she saw.

_Generic brand shampoo- back to refusing to accept any support from his father. Wonder how long that will last? Probably as long as it takes them to release the upgrade to that microscope he loves so much. Coat has loose strands around the collar- taken to hanging it up on the hook outside his door. Sentiment, perhaps? He does like to know his security blanket's around. No, look, slightly bleached around the pocket where light has spilled through the keyhole from the landing- _He _must be spying again, and Sherlock doesn't want anyone to be peeping through his door. Hiding something, perhaps, or is he just doing it on principle? Insufficient data. New scars visible on the back of his neck, where he thinks I won't look- his hair's long enough to hide it now, and the collar of that infernal coat would help. I wouldn't see anything at all had he not been at such a strange angle. Back to cutting, I see._

Gabrielle swallowed. That was one of the pitfalls of seeing everything- she saw the haunted lonlieness and depression on her son's face as clearly as she would had he screamed it in her face. It wasn't like she could do anything about it- who did you call to repair a mind so far advanced? It wouldn't be fair to call a regular therapist, like asking a car mechanic to repair a supercomputer, and Gabrielle simply hadn't yet found anyone she could trust with her baby's precious mind.

_Such setiment, _she half smiled. They hadn't beaten that out of her yet, at least- she still clung to some humanity, whatever Sherlock might be about to accuse her of. Speaking of which, she should probably get around to explaining their destination to him.

"Sweetheart?" she asked quietly, almost laughing as she watched Sherlock visibly restrain himself form responding to the familiar pet name. She tried again.

"Sherlock?" Seemingly satisfied, the boy who bore the name (much to his chagrin) rolled over to face her. "Finally got around to telling me where we're going, are you?"

Gabrielle smirked. "Wow honey, I'd assumed my little genius would have that all figured out by now. Why don't you tell me?"

Sherlock glowered. "You threw me into one of our generic cars, purposely instructing the driver to take a roundabout route for the sake of confusing me, are under the impression I have been sleeping and I have been unwell the past month. And you expect me to give you an answer?"

"Very convient, Sherlock, although I notice you admitted you were in fact awake. There is data here, but what can you draw from it? Tell me what you see." Sherlock rolled his eyes at his mother's fanciful manner of speech, and allowed himself less than ten seconds to review what he knew.

"Well, whether it was conciously or not, you selected a Lincoln towncar for our vehicle, to which you know I am particularly partial, despite the fact that it is exceptionally ostentatious and not very much to your conservative tastes. This combined with the fact that you have let me have what you percieved to be my little nap would indicate that the destination to be something I will find distasteful. Based on my knowledge of the surrounding area, we are just approaching Essex, a place fairly unknown to the both of us. Therefore, the whole area is unpleasant rather than our particular destination, as I believe I know roughly what part of it we're in. Before getting into the car, you handed Henry a bag commonly used for transporting sports equipment, but as I would like to maintain the illusion that you care for me at least a little, I'm going to rule out any extracurricular activity that involves _sports. _I can hear from the unpleasant accents outside the window that we are in a particularly disadvanteged part of town, which I may also have inferred from the predatory look on that charming boy's face as he eyes our hubcaps. Flip him the bird, Henry. No, not like that, put some enhusiasm into it! Better. Anyhow, based on the evidence I have presented, I have come to the conclusion that this is some sort of lesson in empathy, geared towards stirring my sympathies towards the less fortunate. Building houses, perhaps?"

Incredibly impressed, but not willing to show all of it, Gabrielle spared her son a brief smile. "Not incorrect, Sherlock. Not entirely correct, but not incorrect either."

Sherlock scowled. "Well what is it, then? I knew there was something not quite right- the humanitarian in you simply won't allow you to believe yourself _above _these people, so the charity thing was a bit off. _Is _it some kind of sporting event?"

Gabrielle couldn't help her giggle at the horrified look on her son's face.

"No, sweetheart, I think I know you well enough by now not to dare unleash you on some unsuspecting foorball club. No, I think you'll find it more in keeping with your _classical _sensibilities." Here Gabrielle and her son shared an ironic look. Nothing about either the mother nor the son was even remotely conventional, and any artistic training they may have undergone was to the tune of Sherlock whinging and Gabrielle spitting in her husand's meals when he wasn't looking.

"Classical? Interesting. For God's sake, Mum, you can't be making me start up _another _new instrument! Piano, violin, lute, claranet- woodwinds, mixing it up a little- harp, cello, bodhran, tin whistle, saxophone, trumpet, mandalin, ukelele-"

"Cymbals, xylophone, triangle, maracas, castanets, kazoo, those little plastic eggs with the grains of rice in them..." Gabrielle was mildly surprised that Sherlock's glare hadn't melted through the skin of her face. "Um, sorry."

"Glad you think it's funny that I'm stuck in a room all day with various dull people, grappling with some monstrosity of an instrument that I've no desire to learn to play. I'm sixteen years old and a concert level violinist for fuck's sake! What else am I meant to learn really?" Sherlock rarley swears unless it's to emphasise an extreme emotion, and so she lets the curse slip by.

"Sherlock, it's not an instrument. Come on, think! Use that big brain of yours. Physical activity, classic themes, underprivilidged area."

"You can say dump, Mum, they can't hear you. And really, ballet? How _pedestrian_."

While the curly haired woman had been expecting far greater resistance, she was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not when the horse was jet black with breathtaking crystal eyes and the tendancy to kick you in the face, trample your body and then dance all over the corpse if you dared to show it some small crumb of affection.

"Sherlock, you and I both know that you're considerably less upset over attending ballet classes than you're letting on. A bit of novelty and physical exercise will do you good, and you know how likely it is that you'll master the art to perfection within the season and be let off. Your dad demands, however, that you learn to dance as well as he."

Sherlock had never really understood why his Mum sometimes referred to this "Dad" person. A dad was a warm, loving, steady presence who held you up and protected you and would place your happiness above all else. He didn't have a dad, not anymore. He'd a father, though, Lord Siger Holmes, and woe betide any fool enough to forget the "Lord" bit.

"Mum I don't want to prance about some stage in a pair of tights and flick my legs around a bit just so Father can pretend we have something in common!" Sherlock pouted. "I'll take up economics and yell at underlings for blinking or whatever the hell else the man does with his day. Go on, give me a posh office and a huge desk I can kick my feet up on when I throw mugs of coffee at people to voice my displeasure. It'd be brilliant!"

"Sherlock, that was one time, and all assault charges were dropped. Jennings made a full recovery and is currently enjoying a relaxing lifestyle in Australia."

The inky haired boy was about to protest this blatant lie, but stopped when he saw the look on his mother's face. Her lips were pressed together so hard as to be invisible, her eyes cast downward and the muscles of her face seemed to have decided to see exactly how hopeless a state they could arrange themselves into.

_Pretty damn hopeless, _Sherlock thought. In an uncharacteristic display of diplomacy, he held his tongue. My would be proud.

Gabrielle looked up sharply. "No. Don't do that."

Of course he knew exactly what the statement meant, but at least on this Sherlock was willing to hurt his mother if only to make her face the truth. "Don't do what, Mother? I hadn't said a word."

All traces of the smiley young mother was gone, and a steely eyed stranger sat in her place. "Don't you dare Sherlock. Don't you dare let me see him in you. You are my boy, no one else, and I will not have you becoming _him._"

In the space of his life, Sherlock Holmes would become an exceptionally formidable man. Beauty that made your pulse soar, a wit to cut it straight back down. A mind that could see the guilt in a saint, a heart hidden away in a kingdom of ice. A voice that sliced, a brain that discovered, hands that sung and eyes that saw what no one else could. He would be a man that could raze a city to ash, walk straight through hell with a smile and shake hands with the devil himself. He would see, he would build, he would _burn._

But right now, he was a tormented boy with demons dragging at his heels and the only kind face in his life glaring at him as though he was something sick, despicable, _wrong. _So he lowers his eyes and surrenders.

"Of course not, Mum. I'm yours."

John is still dancing when the doors open.

He doesn't hear it- how could he? The music is half deafening him.

He doesn't see it- how could he? He has his eyes closed.

He doesn't sense anything different- how could he? The room is already packed, and people are constantly coming in and out that very door.

But he stops. He slowly pulls out his earphones and glances at the door. His gaze is dragged up as though on a string, and he can't make himself look away.

Sherlock is still pouting when he flings the doors open.

He doesn't smile- why should he? He doesn't want to be here.

He doesn't tilt his head with curiosity- why should he? There's nothing particularly interesting to observe here.

He _definitley _doesn't immediatley notice a small, golden brown creature as the epicentre of the room, whirling and leaping and twisting, a tornado in a meadow- why should he? Why should he be doing any of this? What's happening?

But the boy stops. He stops, he looks, he stares. Sherlock would almost go as far as to say that he _sees._ Sherlock is still whining at his mother.

But he stops. He slowly shuts his mouth and glances at the boy. His gaze is dragged up as though on a string, and he can't make himself look away.

_Oh. There you are. I've been waiting._

**You have no idea how long I spent dicking around and avoiding adding to this. Grrr, there's just always something else to do, isn't there? Damn you, Internet. I'm pretty happy with this particular plot bunny, and I hope you will be too! Just remember, there will be a lot of opinions on ballet flung around, and very few of them will be my own- I don't want to cause anyone offence. Thanks for reading! Lauren x**


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